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she writhes like hawthorns, is dark and demented her impossibly heavy head a branch of thoughts the winds have knotted in all violence. she loans herself (this muse who promised him a flat blue slate to shine his shadow on), her calves are rivers from the glacial snout, her bruised elbows about a space mute and compressing as rock. the torture starts not in the lovely torque of the belly, or even gravity itself, (this muse who gives no release is not delicate, does not dance) but in a black burning at the pit of the throat, a capture of pain and angels somewhere between his heart and her silence. |
